


Barbs

by sabinelagrande



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Damn you tumblr, First Time, I apologize for nothing, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:42:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was never what he expected- but honestly, who ever expects wings?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barbs

Riding in the elevator up to Clint's apartment is fucking torture as well as being fucking ridiculous. This is finally _actually_ going to happen, he is _actually_ going to have _Phil fucking Coulson_ in his apartment, and seeing as how he lives on the seventh floor, Clint doesn't know of any reason at all not to start the party right here in the elevator.

Except that the sweet little old lady who lives down the hall from him and sometimes asks him if he'd like to come to church with her is standing right between the two of them. Phil is carrying her _groceries_ , for fuck's actual sake, because apparently when faced with Mrs. Evans, he becomes the politest motherfucker who ever lived. Clint is not going to say a single word, because he's not unfamiliar with doing really impolite things, up to and including shooting people in the face, but if he can't be a gentleman to somebody's grandma, then he has passed the point of no return.

They finally get to the right floor, and Phil dutifully carries the sack of groceries to her apartment for her, setting it down on the kitchen counter. While he's doing it, Mrs. Evans leans over to Clint and says, "He's cute," giving him a knowing smile, and Clint has seen some weird shit lately, but that is some _weird shit_. He stammers something incomprehensible, Phil collects him, and Mrs. Evans tells them to come by any time.

They walk down the hall to Clint's apartment, and he unlocks the handle for show, and he uses the retinal scan for real, and finally, they are actually alone, in Clint's house, where _unspeakable things_ can occur.

Things almost get off to a rough start; Phil winces when Clint pushes him up against the door. Clint pulls away, taking his hands off Phil's shirt. "Bad back," he says, which Clint knows to be bullshit; there's something a little ironic about his smile, but that describes ninety percent of Phil's facial expressions.

"No problem," Clint says; he turns, putting his own back against the door and pulling Phil towards him. Now the hinges are digging into his back a little, but it's no problem at all, not when Phil is kissing him, caging him in with his arms, his body. Clint grabs his ass in retaliation, dragging him in and grinding against him.

 _Now_ this is going the way it should. He'd say that they're fighting each other for it, but that's not right; just because it's combative doesn't mean they're not working for the same goal- and they are, they _definitely_ are. Clint's not sure they won't reach it right here in the entryway, and he's trying to decide if that's a good idea or a bad one when Phil breaks away. "Bed," he says, and it is in no way a question.

"Fuck yes," Clint replies; he's trying not to make it obvious that he wants to sprint to the bedroom, but really, fuck it, there's really no reason not to. When they're there, Clint doesn't waste a second in whipping his t-shirt off over his head and tossing it to the floor. Phil takes his jacket off and throws it over the chair; he's reaching for his tie, but Clint beats him to it, using it to pull him close and kiss him again. He only lets go once he's good and ready, pulling the knot loose and sliding it out from under Phil's collar, throwing it vaguely in the direction of Phil's jacket.

Phil wears so many _clothes_. It's very tantalizing, normally, leads to a lot of dirty thoughts about unwrapping him, but right now it is a massive pain in the ass.

When Phil reaches up to his collar, his hands hesitate for a moment, but only for a moment; he speeds through his buttons, and Clint pushes his shirt back over his shoulders. It gets caught on his wrists, pulling his hands back. Clint looks at him for a second; it's not an unappealing picture.

"Save it for later," Phil says, with a snort. "A little help?"

It's awkward, but Clint manages to get the buttons on his cuffs undone. Phil's undershirt is odd; it's cut like a vest, with a row of snaps down the front. Clint wonders about it for about three seconds before he starts in on the snaps, tugging them open one by one. 

"Stand back for a second," Phil says, lifting Clint's hands away from his chest, and Clint gives him a little space- a very little. Phil grabs the collar of his shirt and just rips it down, and all the snaps pop open at once, like a zipper.

That is a _great_ trick. Clint hopes he has a lot of shirts that do that.

Phil carefully takes it off, letting it drop to the floor, and he-

Well, what it looks like is when his ex used to take her bra off at the end of a long day, relieved and satisfied; he rolls his shoulders, and from behind him something _grows_.

Clint drops into a defensive stance, because there is no telling what the _fuck_. There's no telling if this is even _Phil_ , not when he has- not when there are-

Phil sighs. "Code 77-Alpha-Tango," he recites. "Blackbird, yuletide, icebreaker. SHIELD tracking device is in my left thigh, IDN 1728001."

Clint relaxes a little, though he's still very wary, because Phil fucking has _wings_.

They're not that big, probably not long enough to even reach the small of his back when folded; they definitely aren't big enough to sustain flight. They have feathers though, smooth black ones, tips of white ones showing through at the bottom.

"Do you want to look at them?" Phil asks, and something about it sounds unhappy.

Clint frowns at him; he feels like maybe this is a trap. "Can it wait? I thought we were gonna fuck."

The corner of Phil's mouth ticks up. "We can do that," he says, and Clint is endlessly relieved. He wraps his hands around Phil's hips and tugs him forward, kissing him hard; it's time to get this show back on the road.

Phil pushes him onto the bed, kissing him as he undoes Clint's jeans, pulling them down; they get caught on Clint's boots, but screw it, that is not important right now. He gets a little bit of an eyebrow lift from Phil for going commando, but then he's unzipping his own trousers and pushing his briefs down, and that is suddenly old news.

Phil climbs on top of him, kissing him roughly and grinding down on him, and yeah, this is how he imagined sex with Phil would be, when he imagined the best case scenario, no nonsense, all single-minded focus. He didn't imagine the wings, of course, and they make things just a _little_ bit different. Clint can _hear_ them, which he wasn't expecting, making soft rustling noises. When Phil moves down to suck at this one devastating spot on his shoulder, he can see them, too. They block out most of the light from overhead, showing up mostly as silhouettes, and as Phil concentrates on him, they seem to curl in more. It makes it feel so much more secretive, dirtier somehow, like this is something they're hiding.

Phil lifts himself up, looking down at Clint, and even from what he can see in the half-light, Phil looks _good_ , breath coming fast and heavy, lips red and swollen. "Do you have-" he says, letting the question hang there.

"I've got stuff," Clint says tightly, "but I don't have _time_."

"Works for me," Phil replies, bending over him again. He takes Clint's dick in his hand, and Clint groans, his head falling back.

"After this, one hour," Clint says, reaching down blindly to jerk Phil's cock. "One hour, and then I'm going to fuck you."

Phil groans, kissing him again, messy and frantic, and _god_ that's a good feeling, knowing he's taken him apart. He's seen Phil be a lot of things, but he's pretty sure he's never seen him not calm, not collected. The rougher it gets, the more he pulls it together, and it's _fucking awesome_ that Clint got to break it up, just by tearing his clothes off and doing filthy things with him.

Clint is getting very close, and Phil looks just as far gone; Clint tightens his hand, moving it faster, wanting to _see_ it, and there it is, surprise and relief and satisfaction all scrambled together on Phil's face, wetness running over the back of Clint's hand. His whole body relaxes, and that includes his wings; they stretch out, extending and falling, and it just brings home to Clint the fact that he is actually in bed with Phil, and Phil has _wings_ , and nothing about this is not unbelievable or amazing. And then Clint is laughing and coming at the same time, which is pretty amazing all by itself.

Phil is glaring at him, the effect of which is somewhat lessened by interference from the dreamy post-orgasm look. "What's funny?"

"The wings," he says, trying not to snicker. "When you come, they go like thiiiis," he informs him, demonstrating it with his hands.

Phil rolls off of him and onto his side, shaking his head. "You are taking this _way_ too well."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Clint asks.

Phil raises an eyebrow at him. "I'm suspicious of the things you might want to do with my feathers."

Clint is just about to respond with his standard "This is not Robin Hood" spiel when he realizes Phil is just baiting him. "You shouldn't have to hide these," Clint says, reaching out; he stops, wondering if he should ask permission.

"You can touch," Phil tells him, rolling over onto his stomach to give Clint access; his wing flutters gently as Clint strokes his hand down it. "But who says I'm hiding?"

Clint looks at him strangely. "You wear them bound up under your shirt. How is that not hiding?"

"It's not hiding when people know," he points out. "Natasha and Director Fury are aware. They're just not the talking type."

"Fair enough," Clint allows. "But that doesn't explain why you don't let them out."

"I'm not Tony Stark," Phil says unhappily, and Clint frowns, not knowing what the hell that means. "I live on a government salary."

"What's that got to do with anything?" Clint asks, puzzled.

"I can't have a bunch of bespoke shirts and suits made," he says. "Not to mention finding a tailor who doesn't ask questions. It was hard enough trying to find anything to bind them with."

Clint just stares at him for a long moment. 

"Let me get this straight," he says finally. "You've got wings, and the reason you don't show them off is because of your _clothes_?"

"That, and they're not appropriate for field operations," Phil tells him, like it's totally reasonable and logical, and that is the essence of Phil, right there, completely inured to even the oddest of things.

"Kinda ruins the aesthetic," Clint admits.

"More worried about the notoriety," Phil says, sounding amused. "But I spend the majority of my time corralling a Norse god, a supersoldier, a Hulk, and whatever the rest of you people are. My having wings would be noteworthy for a day and a half, then it would be reduced to jokes from Stark."

"Maybe not," Clint says. "He's pretty scared of you."

"Glad to hear it," Phil says. He relaxes into the bed as Clint strokes his wings; they're really extraordinary, long, slick, strong feathers. They're beautiful- though Clint is willing to admit that the place where they join Phil's back is very, very jarring to look at.

"I was also afraid you'd be jealous," Phil admits, and he says it in that dry, sarcastic tone that characterizes everything he says; it's just that it sounds sort of hollow.

Clint is about to ask why, but then it hits him. He runs his hands all the way down the span of Phil's wings, leaning in to kiss the back of his neck. "I like anything with feathers on it," he says. "Doesn't mean I'd rather be a bird."

Phil doesn't respond; he pushes himself up, folding his wing so he can look at Clint over his shoulder. "I heard something about an hour."

Clint grins. "It's barely been five minutes," he says.

"Then we need to do something to make the time go faster," he says.

"I just bought Mass Effect 3," Clint offers innocently.

"Shut up and get over here," Phil orders, and Clint goes.


End file.
